


Games

by Writing Cat and Dog (a_cat_and_a_dog)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Broccoli Test, Character Study, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 06:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18773266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_cat_and_a_dog/pseuds/Writing%20Cat%20and%20Dog
Summary: Spies do not trust easily.Written by Cat





	Games

“How was your flight?” asked Napoleon.  
“Second class,” said Illya.  
“Snob.”

Illya was Russian; he knew exactly what luxury was, and necessity, and was ready and willing to live without both. What didn’t come easily to him, or to Napoleon, was trust.

Frightening really, when Napoleon thought about it, was his and his partner’s ability to be anyone on earth as long as it wasn’t themselves. Illya’s sadistic grin as he tortured Napoleon, when he would really rather jump into boiling water, or his offhanded complaint about ketchup and mustard on his sandwich when Napoleon knew that he liked both, or Napoleon’s flippant comment when Illya nearly drowned in bubbles(“I hope you washed behind your ears”) as a way of commiserating.

These were dangerous games, fraught with the potential for misunderstanding should the trust they had in each other be any less than one hundred percent. As it was, their mutual faith was absolute and formed the basis of their entire relationship, both in private and in the field.

There was no complete file on either of them, or on any other agent, save the ones they carried in their heads; there would be too much blackmail potential. (As for Waverley, he took all information with a grain of salt and was the best judge of character Napoleon had ever met.) Neither UNCLE nor the KGB knew that Illya preferred men, though there was record of him seducing two, both of whom were now in prison. They knew Napoleon had killed his first man at the tender age of seventeen, and that he would kill almost anyone for the greater good, but were as yet unaware that his partner was the exception. And there was certainly no record of the things he and Illya got up to from time to time in one or the other’s apartment after dinner and a perfunctory sweep for bugs.

They hadn’t always been like this. In the beginning, when Napoleon still wore tailored suits and Illya refused to buy paper towels, the tension between them rose to an ugly head, and after Napoleon had broken Illya’s nose and Illya had put a dent in the wall with Napoleon’s skull, they dosed up on aspirin and truth serum and sat down for a lengthy chat. Now they still didn’t know everything about each other, but they didn’t have to. Their faith in each other no longer depended on so worldly a thing as knowledge of the past, nor did their communication rely on the limits of words; they now spoke a language of eyes and gestures, condensed into truth by the memory of blood and tears and pain willingly endured, of skin against heated skin and sounds that came unbidden in the dark, of drunken nights crying in each other’s arms after an affair went horribly wrong.

Waverley knew, of course. The charge between them had lost its antagonism, a change the the Old Man could sniff out like a hound. But the possibility that two of his agents might be fucking was the least of his concerns, especially when their performance and success rate had improved to the point that when his top team turned 40 and retired from the field, Illya and Napoleon got the promotion to numbers one and two. It was possible Illya should have been number one; he was fitter, with better reflexes and a phD, but he was way too forward, and Waverley might have worried that the committee wouldn’t accept a communist as the head field agent in the world’s leading capitalist nation, but for all Napoleon knew, it was just because he was short. When he suggested this to Illya over dinner at his apartment, Illya laughed so hard that pesto sauce came out his nose. It was disgusting, and had a special place among the snapshots of their lives that Napoleon would treasure forever. Because Illya smiled in front of people. He even laughed. But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t unguarded and spontaneous, bubbling up from within him like a warm spring from which Napoleon drank and felt joy in turn. No matter what Waverley knew, Illya’s laughter, and many other parts of him besides, were for Napoleon alone. And as they walked out of the airport side by side, they didn’t need to hold hands. Because they were holding minds, and souls, and that was worth more than anything else.


End file.
